


Burrow

by Splat_Dragon



Series: Whumptober 2019 [21]
Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: "Touch-Starved", Alternate Prompt 14, Implied Child Abuse, Whumptober, Young Arthur, Young Dutch, whumptober2019, young hosea
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-25
Updated: 2019-10-25
Packaged: 2021-01-03 05:49:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 720
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21174443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Splat_Dragon/pseuds/Splat_Dragon
Summary: Whumptober 2019, Alt. Prompt #14: "Touch-Starved"Dutch hadn’t thought, had acted out of habit. When they’d stopped their horses, dismounted to let them drink and rest, he’d clapped Arthur on the shoulder (Hosea had hissed, drawing his breath) and pulled him in for a one-armed hug, booming “That was incredible, son!”Dutch had frozen when he realized what he’d done, expecting Arthur to cower, or cringe, or even to bolt.





	Burrow

It hadn’t taken long for them to realize that Arthur was terrified of being touched.

He didn’t tell them much about his past. They knew his ma and his pa were dead, of course, and that he’d been living on the streets for who knows how long.

But it wasn’t hard to put two and two together. He flinched when they patted him on the shoulder, if he saw them moving towards him out of the corner of his eye. When they brought beer or whiskey out after a successful job he’d make himself scarce, heading to take care of the horses before slinking off to his bedroll.

So they started watching themselves.

Making sure he knew they were coming, avoiding patting him on the shoulder (although they still slipped up sometimes). Lessened the amount of alcohol they drank, instead switching out for food so that Arthur could celebrate alongside them.

And he was starting to relax. He was still tense, seldom turned his back to them, and flinched if they caught him by surprise. 

But he was more willing to sit alongside them, cross-legged by the fire, instead of resting his back against one of the horses or on a stump a decent distance away. The first time he’d done it, slinking in like a kicked cur, eyes cast on the ground, they’d both frozen, fumbling their drinks. But when it looked like he was going to leave, they’d resumed talking, looking at the fire as though it were any other day, as though him joining them wasn’t some momentous occasion.

And after that, it had become habit. He’d taken to sitting with them, growing more and more comfortable. To the point that, one night, after a particularly hard train robbery, he’d dozed off, slumping over as his breathing evened out.

_ “Dutch,” _ Hosea hissed, and the man raised his head to look over at him, “look,” he murmured, tossing his head towards Arthur.

Dutch grinned, fighting a laugh, shaking his head. “Should we wake him up? He’ll hurt his back?” he murmured quietly, but Hosea shook his head.

“I don’t want to wake him up,” he said, setting his drink down by his feet and standing, stretching before moving to Arthur. Dutch grabbed his shoulder, shaking his head,

“I’ve got him, old man,” he grinned, and Hosea rolled his eyes even as he worked to, very carefully, work his arms beneath Arthur’s knees and shoulders, lifting him up to hold him against his chest, making a mental note to make sure he ate more, carrying him bridal style towards his bedroll.

Slowly, he set him down, startling some as Hosea seemed to materialize, carefully pulling his boots off of his feet. Shaking his head, he grinned at the man, pausing long enough to run his hand through Arthur’s hair without thinking. He froze, fearing that he’d woke him when he stirred, only to beam when Arthur furrowed his brow, smiling faintly and nuzzling into the nudge with a contented sigh.

Although Arthur, of course, didn’t remember that night, it seemed to be a tipping point.

Dutch had wrapped his arm around Hosea, congratulating him on a job well done, and they’d both caught Arthur staring at him, an odd look on his face. When he’d realized they’d seen him, he’d flushed red, murmured something they hadn’t been able to catch before fleeing to the horses.

_ ‘What was that about?’ _

As it turns out, they’d find out sooner than they expected.

Arthur had pulled off an incredible shot, shooting over his shoulder without looking, taking a gun out of a lawman’s hand without striking flesh, just as they’d tried to teach him—never hurt someone unless you have to—and they’d been _ so proud_, it had been a nearly impossible shot, 

Dutch hadn’t thought, had acted out of habit. When they’d stopped their horses, dismounted to let them drink and rest, he’d clapped Arthur on the shoulder (Hosea had hissed, drawing his breath) and pulled him in for a one-armed hug, booming “That was incredible, son!”

_ Son_.

Dutch had frozen when he realized what he’d done, expecting Arthur to cower, or cringe, or even to bolt.

And the boy had. He’d gone stiff for a heartbeat, then two, before closing his eyes, burrowing into his side with a contented sigh.


End file.
